Month: May 2009
El abismo y yo
Temblando, solo a veces
puede sentarme a escribir
y contar un peregrinaje olvidado
montar una ola de recuerdos
rescatar entre los escombros algunas noches
nombrar escasos momentos
solo a veces, puedo dejar el desierto
el pálido reflejo de un sol vacío;
ante tantos misterios y miedos
solo salgo de una profusa intoxicación
cuando me dices “respira, estás vivo”
no es que se me olvidaba existir, solo que la vida y la muerte
se mezclan incesantemente
el vacío y el éctasis son uno mismo
y la mayoría del tiempo
parece que solo existimos yo y el abismo
el pequeño yo
y el inabarcable absurdo.
Las calles torpes de Antigua,
los volcanes fantasmagóricos de Nicaragua,
mi cuerpo desnudo en la arenas de Oaxaca…
un romance con la arquitectura Bohemia
el profundo silencio de la nieve escandinava
un viento sin voz en las alturas patagónicas
sin nunca preguntar, por qué
andar de una sombra a otra
deshacerme lentamente sobre este rincón galáctico
tirar frases sin sentido al atravesar los días
flotar sin resistencia entre torbellinos
y un día tararear mientras mi sangre se detiene
desistir las calles, los volcanes, los cuerpos, el amor y el silencio
y dejar correr como el viento todo lo que tiene que suceder
estando yo aquí o no.
Coherence
It is impossible to remain coherent. It is an effort beyond human ability – and wonderfully convenient, it is only humans that desire coherence. Life, if you allow it to be, is too intense; and if you look for the words to describe or preserve it, then this intensity travels from wonder to monotony. There is not one single day that is ordinary – only because we are so intimidated by existence that we willingly enter that repulsive state of awareness called “normality”, which is to say, a trivial encounter with known and familiar objects. So, hours may seem like pleasant arenas, where nothing may occur too unexpectedly; but certainly the night comes, or leisure, or what bothers us immensely: waiting comes and hours turn into monsters, ordinary things into blasphemies. We then need to escape, leave this desolate stability; we need chaos, disorder, frenzy! Why? Because all along we’ve faked our pretty little ordered world. We did not want to see things too deeply, we ignored them so we could continue our 9-to-5 placid existence. So, when our hypocrisy is too heavy to bear, we desire madly to return to the world we ignored – we want to embrace the enigmatic, to unite with what is becoming and does not yet bear a name. So we rush away from ourselves only to wake up the next day sick with regret, as if we betrayed ourselves by indulging too much in the irrational. We bounce from one end to the other, grasping for complete coherence on the one hand and on the other, we strip ourselves naked for our plunge into unadulterated confusion. We are unable to leave permanently the false illusion we’ve created, but we fear to stay too long at the other shore, where laws, customs, languages, thoughts and egos break down.
Indulgence: our common road
Materiality is the common road. We tread its trail; we pursue the scent of rock. We are — these two words so inappropriate — herders of demise, we are bearers of disease. For what delicious goal we repeat the nausea of our desire, for what exhausted orgasm we repeat expectations for the future. We are really bound to this world of rock and air, we are truly sterile penises focused on ejaculation, while knowingly incapable of delivering results. And however putrid the atmosphere of habits may be, we continue in them, we wallow in boredom – because someday, we like to imagine, our collected decay will metamorphose into beautiful bliss. That day will come, we say hollowly to ourselves, when the sacrifice of wasting time will pay off and we can excuse ourselves by declaring: I had no choice but to wait.
So, what are we waiting for? We are – again these silly words – nagging children passively waiting for chance or fate to transform, deliver, or elevate this all-too-familiar playground into something we are not ashamed of, something that is more dignified than us. This is clearly shown by the regret and emptiness felt after festive events, after the euphoria of drinking and eating, after the ecstasy of sex, after the pleasure of spending – what’s left is only a longing that comes from a weakened being, somehow mutilated by its indulgence in these material things. And this road that we’ve fashioned for our descendants is barely challenged; we dare not look straight into the eye of our times and threaten these irrational and immeasurable cravings. We will always find alibis to justify our lack of concern, we will be too distracted, too immerse in this playground of pleasure to be blamed for our negligence. Yes, we care for matter too deeply, we’ve placed it at the center of our consciousness…
and we will burn for this……….
indefinable being
The last remnants of this bitterly afraid body, this ambiguous mind, this capsule in which the entire universe seems to exist – and outside, beyond the surface of this inexplicable skin, a blank void, a dark emptiness, a vicious silence. What in the end is the point of this unending preoccupation to make sense of what is finally unspeakable, to exist in a vast and profound space with miraculous shapes and forms, to breathe and beat a heart relentlessly while the plot of an unwritten play unravels — before these eyes full of wonder? However vainly the hours may pass, oblivious of the impending death of my surroundings, the death that will also come to this entity that strangely calls itself “I”; vain attempts to forget the inevitable, to resist the irrevocable. Had this self been able to escape permanently from the entanglements of disaster, had this ego renounced a borrowed language and survived brutally naked without philosophy, without history, without tales, without spoken love. Somewhere within the entrails of this phantasmagorical reality lies a reflection, a foundation upon which all things past, present and future are sustained, nurtured and consumed; it is a realm powerfully un-human, destitute of qualities and because of its effortless existence it remains sovereign above all things that strive. And maybe it is a joke, to conceive or imagine some sort of reality that will remain after all of us are gone, some sort of metaphysical ground by which our passing away seems less painful, less tragic. There might not be any foundation for the fear, the awe and the effort; every act, every thought, every failure is essentially groundless, and we are and will always be an unnamable race, an indefinable being.
Desnudo desorden
Nacer en las manos
y crecer en las raíces
temer por las naciones
y fallecer con los sauces
llorando con la alegría al desvanecer
con el viento, con la pulpa roja de la sangre
sin ver atrás lo que quedó perdido
ni ver adelante lo que nunca tendremos
avanzar cantando, naturalmente
aplastando como castillos de arena
el pequeño plan de la humanidad
el sencillo sueño que pretende darnos orden;
avanzar llenos de locura que libera
de una alegría que huye la definición
ser: la risa del mediodía
ser: el bacanal de medianoche
sin creer, sin temer
de lo que nunca se puede conseguir
que no existe orden ni control
y andamos desnudos y locos
entre la inmensidad olvidada
entre el abismo de la horas
entre los acordes de la transformación…
Alguna esencia
Dejar un registro
Para la eternidad
Aunque sea un verbo confuso
Un solitario adjetivo
Un ambiguo pensamiento
Dejar palmado en la sustancia de un papel
La insustancial vida del hombre
Recordar los colores, el movimiento de las hojas en noviembre
Repasar los colochos de las nubes,
Las lágrimas del miedo
Dejar alguna palabra para ocultar el silencio
Aunque sea: ‘la casa era verde’
Lo que sea… algún registro de esta estadía
Aunque nadie lo lea, aunque nadie le importe
Dejar una evidencia…alguna esencia
Aunque nadie lo entienda,
Aunque no llegue a nadie…